Paper Cranes
by 13EvansNoodle
Summary: Insanity takes many forms, has many faces, and can possess anyone. In this case, a young woman, a new inmate to Arkham Asylum, and a curious study for Doctor Jonathan Crane. A troubled girl, who was forced from a young age to live with her fears, and who has a funny habit of chatting with scarecrows, and a love of paper cranes...


**Right, I probably should have been working on my main story 'It's The Fear', but I watched Batman Begins again over the weekend, and just **_**really**_** wanted to write this oneshot. Hope that it's okay, and if you like it, feel free to check out my other story, in which our favourite lunatic doctor will also be making an appearance.**

Scarecrows and Cranes

Jonathan Crane felt a frown of annoyance crease his forehead as he walked back along the corridor to one of the examination rooms of his asylum. He didn't like being disturbed in the middle of his experiments, and he'd been getting a particularly interesting result from his current patient. But, he couldn't ignore his day job, enough people were getting suspicious thanks to his 'involvement' with Falcone, he didn't need to add fuel to his own fire. Still, he really wished that this could have happened at another time. He seriously doubted it would be as 'pressing' a matter as was suggested, even though the nurse had sounded quite adamant that the new girl was mad, this was an asylum, surely she could wait like all the others.

Of course, it _was _unusual for her to come straight to him, normally Crane would have to testify in a court to get a murderess placed in his facility, but this time the judge had sent her right here. That was all fine, Crane had approved it and she'd been moved last night, it was always good to have more patients in the asylum, but he hadn't seen the girl himself. In fact, he'd near forgotten her until being paged by the nurse.

"_Doctor Crane, you'll want to study the girl."_

She could hardly be anything above the ordinary mad soul who inhabited this place, and Crane really wasn't that interested in her. He'd study her, just like he did all the others, but when he got around to it.

The nurse who'd called him was waiting outside the door to the interview room, in almost a hovering manner, clutching a file tightly in her hand, her eyes flitting nervously around the corridor as she waited for her superior.

"Nurse Jenson," he called out clearly; making her jump, "What exactly did you call me up here for?"

She held the folder out to him, "Doctor Crane, she... I really think that you're the only one who's experienced enough to talk to this girl."

Crane flipped the file open absently, not reading any of it as his eyes skimmed, "Why?"

"Just trust me, Doctor."

He flicked his eyes up, and saw that the woman was indeed quite nervous, "What happened?"

"She just lashed out, you wouldn't think it, for such a slight girl. When I left the room she was in quite a state, screaming and the like, knocked an orderly unconscious before they got a jacket on her."

"Hmm, that's not overly unusual behaviour for our inmates," he noted.

The woman opened her mouth, but Crane held up a hand to silence her, "No, it doesn't matter, I've already been disturbed, I might as well examine her."

"Thank you, Doctor Crane," the woman looked utterly relieved.

He waited until she'd disappeared down the corridor, before he turned to the door and keyed in the access code. He'd learnt over the years not to build a mental picture of his clients before he met them, those touched with insanity never quite fit the conventions of what they should look like, but nevertheless he was surprised at whom he saw when he entered the room.

The girl can't have been many years over 20, with her jet black hair held off her face in a sloppy bun, strands of a fringe had slipped out, and partly covered one brown eye. She stared at him with open curiosity, there was a simplistic madness that glinted in her eyes, one that would easily be overlooked if you didn't know what to look for. Certainly, her face was distracting enough, people never suspected the beautifully innocent looking ones to be holding in a mental outburst. She was Chinese, that much was clear from her appearance, and her name, which was the only thing that he'd read off the file handed to him.

Setting both file and his silver briefcase down on the table, he kept eye contact with her the whole time. She seemed quite serene, showing no signs of whatever violent behaviour had caused the nurse to call him up here. A small smile curved her lips, and a hand twitched beneath the constrains of the straightjacket, no doubt it would have been an automatic thing to sweep her hair back with a hand, but she then had to make do with a light toss of the head.

She was studying him quite intently now, and showed no signs of going to be the first to speak.

"Miss Zhang," he began, "I hear that-"

"Cara," she interrupted; in a melodic voice, "My name's Cara."

"Very well then, Cara," he amended, "I hear that you caused one of my orderlies some trouble."

She shrugged, as well as she could, "He was putting _this _on me. Wouldn't you fight if someone was trying to cage you?"

"Yes, but he was doing that because you attacked the nurse," Crane pointed out.

"She was asking me questions I didn't want to answer, and wouldn't let me say no," Cara replied.

"What sort of questions?" Crane inquired.

The girl shifted in her seat, "About my past."

Interviews like these always took familiar steps, it was an old pathway for Crane, one that he knew blindfolded, "And why didn't you want to talk to her?"

"I don't trust her."

"Why is that?"

She frowned, and cocked her head slightly to the side, "You ask a lot of questions."

"That's my job," he smiled ruefully.

"I thought your job was to make me better, not ask about my past," she said; gaze drifting away from his, staring at some vacant point of the wall behind his head.

"This is all a part of that, I can't help you if you don't let me understand you," he explained.

She laughed at that, a high, mocking, sound that rang off the walls, "Understand me? How can you do that if I don't understand myself? I try and learn, voices try to teach me, I try new things and see if they fit."

"New things, like...murder?" he mused.

"No." Her gaze was on his again, sharp and accusing, "That wasn't one of the new things."

"What was it then?" he questioned.

She shifted around, and wouldn't answer him. He sighed heavily, and opened up her file again, this time he would read the information. Her back-story, or what little of it was documented, didn't really show anything that might lead to making someone insane and murderous. She grew up on a farm, somewhere in California, and both her parents still lived by all accounts. Only child, left home at the age of 18, and she'd been living in Gotham for the past couple of years, working in a bookstore. As far as these records went, no history of violent madness, just a lot of strange behaviour. Until the night where she had allegedly just lashed out in the middle of the store, using a variety of martial arts to bring down several civilians, and break the neck of her former boss.

"You won't understand me if you read that, you can't write people up on files and then say that you know them."

He looked up at the sound of her voice, and saw that her gaze had returned to studious. Keeping eye contact with her, he closed the file.

"Well then, why don't you help me understand you?"

A grin flashed into being, "And what if I don't want you to?"

"Why don't we start with just checking facts?" he suggested, "I ask you a question, and you tell me yes or no, sound good?"

She considered this, her eyes shifting from corner to corner on the wall being him, like a clock counting down. Eventually, she nodded. That seemed o be the only signal he was going to get from her, so he leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table.

"Your parents were Cynthia and George Zhang."

"Those were their Western names, yes," she replied, "I'd teach you their real ones, and mine, but I don't think that you could pronounce them right."

He didn't press that, "You grew up in California, on a farm, as an only child."

She nodded, eyes gaining a wistful cast, "I miss home..."

"Why did you leave?"

Her gaze sharpened, and grew suspicious, "I thought we were doing yes or no questions."

He smiled understandingly, "You haven't exactly been giving me yes or no answers."

Her head whipped to the side, and her eyes were staring at something that only her mind could see. After a few moments, she began to smile widely, and her eyes took on a truly happy cast.

"Hello! What?"

She began to grow unsettled as she listened to whatever this vision was telling her, Crane only watched, it was fascinating to watch the mind take control in this way. She really was quite a study, and he was still curious as to whether he'd see any display of that violence she'd shown the others.

"Tell him?" she demanded; sounding put out, "But you said... oh alright."

She turned back to him, and jumped a little in her seat when she caught his intent stare. He didn't pull back, or change his expression. She looked fairly annoyed, a little frown creasing her brow, and an angry storm in her eyes.

"I ran away, I could when I turned 18, so I did," she said, "I didn't want to stay at home anymore, I didn't want to stay with them."

"Your parents?" he clarified.

She nodded, and the anger in her eyes faded before his own, and instead they turned into light brown pools of sadness. Moisture collected in the corners, and she tried to blink it away, but a single droplet managed to get out, and slide slowly down her pale face.

"Didn't you have friends nearby? People you were close to?"

He might be sounded blunt, but he wasn't paid to be sympathetic and nice.

"No one lived nearby, I had friends though," she replied, "My best friend was Jefferson, but he couldn't come with me. None of them could."

"Why is that?"

"Because he couldn't move, silly," she said; tone shifting to chiding.

Crane opened his mouth, but she spoke over him, "Let me guess, 'why is that?'"

He chuckled under his breath, "Yes."

Her grin popped into being again, "Because he was a scarecrow."

Any expression of humour disappeared from Crane's face in less than a second.

"A...scarecrow?" he echoed; hand unconsciously twitching towards his briefcase.

She nodded enthusiastically, "Oh yes, they're great listeners, don't you know? Oh, but you do! You're just like them, a human scarecrow, you're a good listener. I think I like talking to you a lot more than the nurse."

Oh she had no idea just how close to home her words were hitting, and as he often did, he wondered if people dismissed the mad too quickly. As often as not, they were far more insightful than any of the 'sane' people could hope to be. Crane's theory was that whatever mental trigger it was that made them insane, also opened them up to take in a lot more information.

Cara seemed to love scarecrows, and Crane was suddenly curious at what effects she'd suffer from his gas while he was wearing his own mask. Without first realising, he found himself smiling, and slowly slipped his glasses off. She watched his every move closely.

"You think I'm crazy..." her sentence trailed off, "Well, I suppose by your definition I am, just because I'm not 'normal'. But maybe I'm not 'insane', maybe I just live in a different world to you. A world where _others_ exist, a world where things you see as inanimate, I see living and breathing. Maybe it's not my mind that you should worry about, but your own."

Crane took in her words, and had to admit that it was the most collected argument he'd ever heard one of his inmates make in the defence of their insanity. He popped the clasps on his case, and watched her eyes snap to it at once.

"Would you like to see my mask, Cara?" he inquired.

"Which one?" she asked in turn, not giving him his standard response, "I've seen you put on several while talking to me."

"Not one of those masks," Crane said; feeling slightly uneasy, this girl was more perceptive than he'd thought, "I think you'll like it."

He pulled out the crudely stitched burlap, and held it up for her inspection. The expression on her face transformed from suspicious, to surprise, to joy, in rapid succession. He had the distinct feeling, that if her hands had been free, she would have been clapping them. As it was, all she could do was bounce a little in her seat.

"Scarecrow! It's a scarecrow mask!"

A rueful grin came into being on his face, as well as an interesting idea.

"Cara, you don't like the jacket, do you?"

She strained within it, "No."

Crane laid the mask down, and her eyes didn't move from it, even as he slid back his chair and stood.

"If I take it off, will you attack me?" he asked.

Her eyes moved then, looking up at him with innocent curiosity, "Will you give me a reason to?"

Crane had no reason to trust her word, and he certainly didn't trust it, but he also didn't think that she would attack him. As volatile as the mad could be, and as curious as it was that she had remained the calm the whole time, Crane thought that he was beginning to get an understanding of the girl.

"I don't intend to," he replied.

She didn't say anything in turn, but using her feet, she pushed her chair back and looked up at him expectantly. He walked over to her slowly, with her seated as she was, he towered over her, and he suspected that he probably still would even if she were standing. Kneeling down, he began to undo the various straps that held the straightjacket closed. Her eyes didn't move from his the whole time, there was a mix of things in her gaze. Curiosity, sadness, amusement, madness, and gratitude. A strange combination, to say the least, and Crane once more marvelled at how complex the mind was.

When he had undone the last buckle, and slid the heavy jacket from her shoulders, she didn't do anything for a minute or so. Then she stood cautiously, and for the first time he saw her look unsure of herself, before going on her toes and stretching like a cat, only vertically. He'd been right, he was still far taller, and once she was done with her stretch, she gazed up at him once again.

"Thank you."

He didn't respond, and she switched her gaze back to the mask lying on the table. Taking a single step towards it, she reached out and picked the thing up, holding it reverently spread over one hand.

"It looks almost exactly like Jefferson's face," she whispered; trailing the fingers of her free hand over the thick stitches, "The same mouth..."

"Would you like to see him again?"

She nodded sadly, "More than anything, I don't even have a photo of him."

"Please, sit," he said; gesturing back to the table, and taking the mask from her.

She looked about to protest, but he laid it down on the table, and she walked over in a heartbeat. Taking a seat, she reached out again to the mask, but then held herself in check, twisting her hands in her lap instead.

"What's your name?" she asked suddenly, as if the question had burst out of her.

"I'm Doctor Crane," he replied.

She laughed, "That's what you are, I asked your name."

He smiled indulgently, "Jonathan. Jonathan Crane."

She nodded, "Jonathan...I think one of my cousins was called that, but I can't remember. I like your last name though. Crane, like the bird?"

"Yes, like the bird."

"I can make cranes, out of paper," her hands began to fold an imaginary piece of paper, "I liked doing origami, I could make lots of things, but cranes were my favourites. I made lots of them, they flew around my room."

They were getting off topic, and Crane wanted to play more with her friendship of scarecrows. He didn't ask her if she trusted him, it was always a futile question, so he simply commanded her, "Close your eyes."

She did so, and he lifted the mask from the table, flicking the respirator on, Crane pulled it over his head, making it straight so that he could see.

"Cara," he called out.

Her head swivelled in the direction of his slightly altered voice, "Can I open my eyes?"

"Yes."

She did so, and her expression was one of true joy when she clapped eyes on him.

"Jefferson!" she exclaimed; running over and throwing herself into his arms, hugging him tightly, "Oh, I've missed you so much!"

She'd said that her scarecrows had been great listeners, but hadn't mentioned anything about talkers. Still, Crane didn't think he'd be risking much by talking, she probably wouldn't even notice anything. Before he played with her mind, he wanted to play along with her gave for a while, this was more entertaining than he'd thought it would be.

"I missed you too," he replied.

She pulled back, and looked at him, "Your eyes are different, they're not all black anymore, they're a really pretty blue...I like them."

He didn't have a reply for that, but Crane was beginning to see that when she called scarecrows good listeners, it was probably because she didn't want many replies, she just needed to talk.

"I thought it would be different in the city, remember how I told you? I thought maybe the voices would stop. The voices and the dreams. But they didn't, they kept on coming into my mind. And I kept on seeing the things, and father, I saw him a lot too. I ran away from them, from all of them, for years I did that. But then... oh, one day it was too hard. There were so many of them in the shop I worked in, and father tricked me, he looked like my manager that day. I didn't want to be afraid of them anymore, so I attacked back! You'd have been proud of me, I was as good as mother once was, but then the police came..."

So her attack on the people _had_ been one of mistake and madness, that cleared that question up in his mind, but Cara wasn't done talking.

"I'm in this place now," her gestured around the room, "I have to wear red, you know how much I hate red, and most of the people here aren't that friendly. They just ask questions, and demand answers. I don't want to talk to them though. Why should I? I don't want to tell my story to just anyone who asks, do they tell other people everything about themselves? Why do I have to if they won't?"

She started pacing in an agitated manner, "I hate it here, there are voices, so many voices. No one else seems to hear them, everyone either has their own demons, or they're not listening. One nurse started asking about father, I'm not allowed to talk about him, he said so, but she kept insisting, so I hit her. Things went a little out of my control, they made me wear a strange jacket, you'd have hated it."

She sighed, "I just wish... I don't know what I wish. One person here is nice, I liked talking to him, I think he understands because he knows what it's like. He's just like us, the lost ones, even if he pretends that he isn't. I told him about you, and he reminded me of you, just like you're kind of reminding me of him now."

She cocked her head to the side, "Maybe I'm mixing you two up in my head."

The pause that followed wanted a reply, so Crane supplied one, "Maybe, what do you think would make you do that? Is he like me?"

"Well," she considered the question, "In some ways. He makes me want to talk, like you do, but I don't really trust him sometimes. He's more lost than I am, I think, it's hard to tell."

Crane was done with this now, he wanted to see how she'd react to his gas, and began walking back over to his silver case.

"Jefferson, what are you doing?" she inquired; following him.

"What are you afraid of, Cara?" he asked; opening the case.

She looked uncomprehendingly at the device inside, "The _others_, father, and... oh, you know, it's hard to explain. Why are you asking me that? I don't like that topic, father made me face my fears enough when I was little."

Crane's finger paused over the button that would cause the gas to jet up to her face, "What?"

She wrapped her slim arms around herself and shook lightly, "The little blue flowers, the ones he burnt, don't you remember them? I used their petals for your eyes when I made you. I haven't seen them here, father used to get them from somewhere else, I'm glad that they aren't here."

Blue flowers... blue flowers like the kind Ra's al Ghul's fear drug came from. The flowers that supplied the source of Crane's medicines. How would this girl's father have had a supply of them? Unless he originated from the area of China that these flowers were found, but even then, few knew of their powers. But it seemed like she'd been exposed to them from a young age, no wonder the girl was mad, her madness was caused by her fears. No doubt she saw them constantly, an effect of overdose of the flowers' drug.

Still... Crane wanted to see what she'd do with the weaponized version, and his finger pressed the button down.

The gas shot out, and filled the space between them quickly. Cara jerked back from him, shock written all over her face, and she started coughing. Waving her hands, trying to dispel the gas, her eyes were wide with fear. She looked around the room, eyes seeing shades and ghosts that no other eye would perceive. But still, she didn't scream, and her reactions were nothing near as violent as those of his other patients.

Crane nodded in satisfaction, he'd guessed right. The constant exposure had left her mildly immune, she was taking in this dose as if it were much weaker than it would be for any other person. Safe being his respirator, Crane only watched her with interest.

"Jefferson!" she cried, "Jefferson, where are you? It's the smoke, like what father used to use, oh god, it's just the same!"

She stumbled towards him through the gas, and clutched at his suit, "Make is stop."

Crane's blue eyes locked with her wide brown ones for several seconds, and he thought he caught a glimmer of the horrors she might be seeing, before she buried her face against him, and her shoulders started to shake with sobs.

"They're all around me, in my head, dancing in my brain," she murmured, "I want them to go away, make it stop, please, help me."

It was not pity that made Crane shut the gas off, he'd achieved all that he could from that test, and nothing further would be gained if the girl remained in this state. The longer she breathed it in for, the longer it would take to shake the effects off, and he wanted to try again as soon as he could.

He pulled her away from him, and she just hid her face in her hands, raving about shadows and refusing to open up her eyes. Her hair had fallen completely from its binding, and slipped in waves around her shoulders. Crane lowered her into a seat, where she pulled her knees up and hugged them with her arms, keeping her face hidden.

He took the mask off as soon as the remains of the gas cleared, replacing it back into his case, he shut it with n audible click, but Cara didn't look up from her curled position. For a few minutes Jonathan Crane just looked down at her. Such a small thing, to contain such...twists and turns in her mind. It was the first time that anyone he'd treated had been scared of something outside of his mask, let alone fled to his 'scarecrow' for comfort and protection. Crane didn't doubt that Cara Zhang had a lot more inside of her than anyone else in his asylum.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Zhang, and your cooperation," he said; making his way to the door.

"It's Cara," she corrected, "And thank you for Jefferson, Jonathan Crane."

He turned, and saw that she hadn't looked up, but her hands were now no longer clutched around her legs. They were visible on the table, once more folding the phantom paper, no doubt into little cranes. For the second time that interview, a low chuckle came from his throat as he left the room.

Indeed, she would make a fine addition to his study.


End file.
